The Dark Wanderer: The Curse of the Children
by Onhiro
Summary: Peace rules through the lands after the War of the Ring, but an assassination attempt on Donovan and his family challenges that peace in ways none could imagine. Sequel to The Dark Wanderer, highly suggested to read that before reading this story!
1. Training

**AN-This story is not one particular story. Rather, it is a series of one shots set in my 'The Dark Wanderer' universe. Now, the interesting thing about this, is that as one shots, I am completely open to suggestions. Chances are, if you suggest something, it will appear in a chapter, coming soon to a monitor near you! Of course, I will try and keep the characters in...well, character. And I dare you to try and shock me. Try your best to find something that you think I won't write about, and I just might shock _you_ in the end. As a note, chapters probably won't be more then one thousand words.**

TRAINING

"No, ya stupid git! You're too stiff, you _need_ to relax for the blow to be properly executed!" came the shout across the training field, and Donovan Cerridwen, the Lord of Vampirism in all of Arda, raised his eyebrow as his eyes searched out the disturbance. The rest of the men had stopped their hand-to-hand drills to watch the short Gondorian woman rail out a Durvagorian cadet.

_One would think_, Donovan mentally sighed as he shoved himself off of the wall he had been leaning against, _that a Gondorian would be no match for a Durvagorian. Then again, I trained Hanariel Âmul myself. I wonder how her father, David, is doing?_ He walked slowly and pointedly towards the two arguing people, always mindful of that soft yet ever present ache in his chest, reminding him that he was no longer as young as he used to be. _Damn the Witch-king to the void!_ "Hana!" he called out, voice imperious yet fatherly at the same time. "Need help?"

Hanariel was no doubt the shortest person in the expansive courtyard. Donovan would have been surprised if she measured more then five foot even. She had voluntarily joined the Durvagorian Army, wanting to serve in the Black Guard. If it weren't for her…'vertical challenge'…Donovan would have had no problem letting her take over her own father's position, that is, commander of the Black Guard. However, she was too short, but she was not to be wasted, no sir!

She had possibly the greatest knowledge of Durvagorian tactics, weapons, and equipment. This, of course, was thanks to the fact that she had read all of the different editions of the military manuals Donovan had made. Also David Âmul, who was one of the men Donovan trusted most, was her father, and Donovan himself was named her godfather. He had made certain to pass some of his massive amounts of knowledge onto her.

This was not to say that Hana wasn't a lady of status. She knew all the codes of etiquette and could perform marvelously in the higher echelons of society. She always was of a more adventurous blood then most of her heritage. She had married a Rohirric outrider when she was sixteen, and surprisingly the marriage worked out. They were, above all other things, happy with one another.

Hana, who turned thirty not to long ago, had already given birth to three children. However, due to constant training and other such physical activities, her body was just as well built as it had been when she was twenty. She would age extremely well. And because of her expertise and her experience, Donovan had made sure to employ her as a trainer, a Drill Sergeant, if you would. She was more then happy to comply. She particularly enjoyed teaching hand-to-hand skills, something she was frighteningly good at. Which led to the current problem.

"Don't worry, sir, I've got this covered," Hana said with a particularly predatory grin. Donovan shrugged, and stopped outside the training circle. "Now, you pathetic bastard, try it again."

The Durvagorian, possibly one of the few pure bloods born of Durvagorian mother and father, sighed as he awkwardly swung his tomahawk in what was intended to be a short and brutal strike.

Hana snarled a particularly startling oath, and stomped over until she stood directly in front of the recruit, who looked at her with bewildered eyes. "Strike me," she growled.

The recruit flinched. Evidently the Uruk-hai mentality of 'crush first, ask later' had not been passed down onto him. He would learn, though. Hana would teach him, or another would. "Why?" he retorted, trying to mask his shock and fear.

"So I can show everyone why it is necessary to strike properly."

The recruit, who still appeared apprehensive, asked timidly, "Will it hurt?"

Hana, without missing a beat, replied with a firm shake of her head. She was a very good liar.

The recruit swung again in a half-hearted blow. Hana simply swept the attack aside. "Do it again, ya worthless peace of dung!"

Again he swung, more angrily this time. But again, Hana deflected his blow. "When I say strike me, then do it! Rûk talûn-karkû!" Even Donovan started at that, wondering just _why_ David had seen it befitting to pass orc curses down to his daughter. Finally, though, the recruit reacted. With a vicious scream he swung a hard and brutal strike…with a stiff shoulder and arm.

Hana caught his arm, pulled forward, and wrench the arm back more brutally then was really necessary. There was a sickening crunch as the recruits shoulder broke under the awkward and massive pressure that had been applied against it. He screamed as he was effectively flipped, and with a dull thud he hit the ground and lay still, right arm bent in entirely the wrong position.

"THIS IS WHY YOU DO WHAT I TELL YOU THE FIRST TIME!" Hana shouted in frustrated anger. Donovan would have a talk with her later. She was not a person who overly enjoyed hurting people, but the lesson needed to be taught. _And, damn,_ Donovan thought with morbid amusement as he cast his eyes upon the stricken recruit, _does she teach her lessons well_!


	2. Stately Dinner

**AN- The next section, and hopefully this will pull in more reviews. Remember, I am open to suggestions. Read, enjoy, and review.**

STATELY DINNER

'Twas a rare time for the peoples of Gondor. It was a time when the warriors who defended them silently but effectively joined together for a night of council and festivity. It was the day that fell on the anniversary of the Siege of Minas Tirith, and it was the day that the leading officers of the Durvagorian Army met at Minas Tirith.

Now, due to coincidence of the highest degree, it happened that this meeting just chanced upon the date that Legolas Thranduilion and Gimli son of Gloin had arranged to meet with Aragorn in their own stately dinner. By happy chance, Aragorn came to the conclusion that it would be good for all gathered to join for one dinner. Surely Legolas and Gimli would remember the fathers and mothers of those joined.

There also was no doubt that the two unlikely friends would like to speak with Donovan and Elenloth, as well as their daughter, who had just returned from her wanderings. Would she have interesting tales to tell, or would she be more transfixed on the stories of the others gathered in happy ceremony?

And so, happy folk, doth we intrude upon the scene of our dear friends, whereupon we will find things that are not quite as they seem…

Boisterous laughter filtered out into the entrance hall of the court that had been altered for the sake of the King's merry company. The young lady who had cloak and cowl drawn tightly over her body strode without due hesitation towards the dinner, and she nodded wordlessly to the silent and fell guards who seemed to be apparitions from some untold nightmare, clothed and geared in pure black, with weapons rarely seen in the lands of man. Only one dared return the gesture so shamelessly given by the lady.

Who was this unknown figure who so callously acknowledged those that were to remain overlooked? Was it some cripple hiding her fell form by the darkened cloth of her dress; come to beg for table scraps? Nay, 'twas not so, for her stance was tall and proud. She paused at the entrance of the yard, where bright sunlight pooled at her feet shod in well-worn boots.

"-not so, my liege!" one of the women sitting at the table protested with a smile upon her lips. "Range makes all the difference in war, not physical prowess."

The lady who came late switched her attention to the lord being addressed. The very moment she laid eyes upon the man, she froze, and a small gasp came unbidden from her lips. 'Twas an elf who answered the challenge, and tall and fair was he. Never had the lady seen such physical perfection. If only not for the scar that marred his beautiful visage. "'Tis true," he retorted. "Unless I get within striking range of you, then you would fall to either my bow or my blades."

Even though the warrior-lady already seated started to answer, the newcomer's gaze stayed affixed upon the elf, so fair was he. "You have not seen an orc's head implode from the advent of a high-velocity round fired from my sniper rifle, my lord. I am master of the Durvagorian snipers, and I think it would be an interesting hunt, 'tween you and I."

One of the higher lords at the head of the table suddenly became aware of the newcomer, and he stood gracefully, though not without a small hint towards the pain that was his constant companion, be it day or night. The lady seated at his side also rose, a compassionate hand laid upon his hand to let him know that he was not alone. The lord smiled reassuringly towards his lady, then looked again to the lady cloaked in darkness.

"My majesties, lords, ladies, and masters and mistresses of war. My wayward daughter has graced us with her presence. Elanariel, come forth and remove your worn gear. Now is a time to be merry."

The lady stood hesitantly at the entrance, then strode forward, removing the cowl from her head. There was a gasp from those assembled, but none as loud as from the elf-lord. The lady's beauty rivaled if not surpassed her mother's, for there was a certain fey charm about her. Her skin was pale as the purest milk, and her lips as red as the most beautiful rose. Her long hair was a silky black with auburn highlights, and she was perfectly proportioned, at least in the opinion of the available males assembled.

'Twas then that those seated noticed the heavy blade girded at this maiden's waist, and the smooth gait that any dancer could envy. However, it was known that it was not dancing that gifted this young lady her grace. Elanariel seated herself in the darkest corner of the table, and the conversations shared by all continued once again. Take note, dear readers, that two pairs of eyes did often seek each other out and look away again, blushes coloring two faces. These two will meet again this fair Gondorian night, and then they will meet often as they could. Such is the tale of Legolas Thranduilion and Elanariel Donovaniel.


	3. First Meeting

**AN- And heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's the next one! Almost a continuation of the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy...AND REVIEW!**

FIRST MEETING

Really, she hadn't meant to meet him at all. It just…happened. Regardless of the fact that he was 'eye-candy' (a term she learned from her father), she felt he had no right to be interested in her. After all, he didn't know her, and she only knew him by his legend. Still, regardless of whether or not she wanted to meet him or not, she still bumped into him after the dinner. Something she wasn't too happy about.

She refused to be within eyesight of him. Something about him made warning bells go off in her head, and she didn't want to be bewitched by his good lucks, either. So, she stood just around the corner, listening to the early spring birds that flitted about the garden that she and the elf were situated in.

He was seated, and still remained seated even after she had walked around the corner and then leapt back from sight. So the position of his heart told her. Interesting that it sped up slightly, showing her that he was aware of her.

They stayed in that same position for several minutes, him looking towards the sky as he sat on the stone bench, she leaning against the hedgerow out of his sight, her eyes glued to the ground. It was he that spoke first. "Who are you?" he asked, elvish voice thrumming softly in the air.

"A shadow," she answered instantly. "One that should not be trusted, nor bothered."

"That is folly. No woman should ever think herself as a shadow." His tone was oddly persistent.

"Even if I am?" She grinned wickedly, though he couldn't see it. "My father trained me himself. He is my only better in terms of fighting."

She heard him scoff lightly. "That does not make you a shadow that makes you a decent warrior."

She stood straight with indignation. "Careful, prince. I am far more than decent. To lump me in with those that really are 'decent' just might be hazardous to your health. And I _am_ a shadow. My father's sword style is one that pits you against many, and is the perfect tool for an assassin."

"So, you name yourself as an assassin?" he asked, and she heard the scorn in his voice.

"Nay, prince. I named myself as a shadow. I help protect Gondor and all its allies. Why do you think no enemy army has marched upon Minas Tirith or any other Gondorian province for the past fifty years or so?"

"You so callously name yourself a manslayer, yet write it off as just being a shadow. Do you know how depraving that sounds?"

"I did not hear you nor any elf from Eryn Lasgalen complaining when I took the head of a goblin chieftain readying to make war against your lands. Be careful of how you treat me, or I won't feel so ready to do such a good deed in the future."

Legolas snorted, a very un-elf sounding noise. "We could handle anything that the dark forces have to throw at us." He paused, and Elanariel heard his clothes shifting slightly. "What you do is unfair and unethical."

Elana smirked. "You really think so? I _always_ give them time to prepare." She silently and gently lay her hand upon the hilt of her blade. "Here, I'll show you. Prince, prepare!"

She heard…no _felt_ him jerk in surprise. "Wha-?" Before he finished saying that word, she was around the hedge, her blade drawn and resting lightly on his neck. He looked at the sword, and then at her, fire dancing in his eyes. "That, my lady, was unfair." He slowly stood, frustration and anger shown clearly on his face.

She smiled brightly at him. "My lord, I must say that combat, as a whole, is unfair. You yourself own a bow that can outshoot anything on Arda. Well, anything other than a Durvagorian firearm. You are undoubtedly the best archer this land has seen in a long time. You have taken down hundreds of orcs before they ever noticed your presence. I gave you forewarning. Is it my fault that you were unprepared?"

She and Legolas stood still for an untold amount of time. Finally, he smirked. "I know the perfect counter to your attack." Before Elana could react, his large warm hand enveloped her small cool hand, disabling her ability to use the sword. By no means, however, was it a grip to hurt. Rather, it was almost a caress.

He gently pushed down, and Elanariel had no choice but to lower the blade, unable to ignore the sparks that seemed to be emanating from his hand. She blinked, and he was suddenly _there_, pressing his lips softly against hers. She twitched, and it was impossible to ignore the racing of her heart as he pressed more insistently with his lips. Her sword dropped heavily onto the ground, and he stepped forward, bringing his body against hers.

She gasped, and his tongue entered her mouth, caressing hers wetly and smoothly. She noted dimly that he tasted…fresh. As though this kiss was more than just a kiss. Then, just as she was getting into the rhythm, he pulled away, and she blinked in confusion, unable to really comprehend what he just did. He smirked in a very, very male way, and she focused on how smug he looked. She could fight against that.

He leaned in for another kiss, but she smirked and placed two of her fingers against his mouth. "Careful, prince. No matter how exhilarating it is to kiss the cobra, remember that the cobra has a poisonous bite." She smiled widely, making sure he saw her fangs. Leaning in a bit closer, she whispered, "You have to earn the next kiss, my lord." Without another word, she retrieved her sword and walked away, drawing her cloak closer about her. However, she did not miss the prince's last words:

"This promises to be fun…"


	4. Love Never Ending

**AN- Here is a chapter that was written to answer the request of one of my more close friends. Hopefully my friend will like this. To answer a previous request, no, I don't think I'll write a sequel of The Dark Wanderer featuring Elanariel and Legolas. There is just too much to encompass in this universe of mine, and I'm comfortable with what I'm doing now. I was also asked to include a background check on the characters as I wrote their respective chapters. I will try to do so, and this might also up the word count.**

**This chapter has 896 words, excluding the AN. Read, enjoy, and please review.**

LOVE NEVER ENDING

My name is David Âmul. My age is twenty-eight human years, though I am not human. I am Durvagorian, and I look like I'm fifty-eight. My serial number is 073-68-8303. I have served in three wars and countless battles. I have single-handedly killed more men and orcs than I can conveniently count. I retired at the rank of Captain, with full benefits. I can still run from the gates of Minas Tirith to Osgiliath without pausing. I can also lift over one hundred fifty pounds at once.

I am a master at hand-to-hand fighting, as my eldest daughter can attest. I can hit a moving man-sized target at one hundred yards with a 7.62mm assault rifle, designated the M14. I can do the same with a .45 caliber pistol at a third of that range. Despite the fact that I am retired, all that I need to be reactivated is Lord Donovan's word. I will unhesitatingly answer his call.

I answer only to Lord Donovan, King Elessar, and Queen Arwen. I was the leader of the single most dangerous force upon the face of Arda. The Black Guard, as we were called, got the best training in the world. Stealth and range attacks from the elves, as well as wilderness survival. Defensive fighting from the dwarves. And finally, marksmanship and hand-to-hand fighting from Lord Donovan himself. Wherever the king goes, we go. He is never unprotected, thanks to us.

But still, I am now retired, as I have previously stated. And, truth be told, I am happier as a retired man. Oh, sure, I'm _proud_ of what I can do. But I'm much happier working my business, which I plan to hand down to my eldest son carrying my blood in his veins. Speaking of that business…

"OW!" I roared as a gob of boiling hot fat splashed out of the fryer and landed on my hand. "You bloody sonofa-!"

"David?" came the call from the house. Immediately I silenced my swearing, and I could feel my beard bristling at the effort. I really tried to watch my language around my wife and family, I really did.

"Yes, honey?" I strained out as calmly as I could.

"Did you burn yourself again?" Adra asked, her voice getting louder.

"Yes, dear," I answered as she entered into the bakery. I wiped my still hurting hand on my flour covered apron and sighed. "It's not like I can just stop making the stuff. People love my sourdough bread. Particularly when it's been deep fat fried. I can't ignore the demand. People depend on me to feed their families."

Adra laughed and came up to me, wrapping her arms around my neck and embracing me closely. "That's why I love you. You don't care about whether or not you make money from this. You do it because you honestly care about the people."

I held Adra close, clutching her tightly against me. She was undoubtedly of Numenorian descent, for she looked like she was forty, even though she was sixty. I long got over the fact that she was my elder, and I always found it amusing that people always thought that I was the older one.

Coming out of my thoughts, I gently smiled and tilted Adra's head up before meeting her mouth with mine in a sweet and chaste kiss. I broke away after a few moments, and rest my forehead against hers. "I was just cleaning up here. I'm done with business today, so after a few more seconds we can head in." Without even giving it a thought, I cleared her a space on one of my preparation tables and lifted her up onto the surface. I gave her a quick peck before returning to the task of putting out the fires under the deep fat fryer.

I considered myself very lucky. After more than twenty years of marriage to Adra we have only really fought once. And that was in regards to my decision to catch an arrow for Eldarion, Aragorn's eldest son. Adra was very worried and angry that I had done so, and we didn't talk for nearly two weeks after I came back home. But other then that, we have only had minor disagreements that were resolved with a flip of a coin. Even after twenty years, our love for each other ran strong.

Finally finishing my duties, I took off my apron and rolled my shoulders, and I felt my muscles strain against my shirt. Just 'cause I look like I'm nearly sixty don't mean jack-diddly-squat. I sauntered up to Adra, and gave her my best smile, one that was reserved solely for her. People knew me as a hard ass, but that wasn't necessarily true.

"Adra, are the kids home?" I asked in a low voice that made her visibly shiver with anticipation.

"No," she answered, a glint in her eyes.

"Good," I growled as I swept her up into my arms. After kissing her senseless, I made my way to our bedroom where I gently tossed her onto the bed. I wanted to spend some quality time with my wife, and by the Valar no one was going to dare stop me. I swooped down upon Adra and began tickling her, grinning despite her loud protests amongst squeals of laughter. It was good being me…


	5. Operation: Retrieval

**AN- Oddly enough, this is the first installment that actually has to do with a military operation on a large scale. No real action...yet. But definately in the next chapter.**

**Read, enjoy, and review!**

OPERATION: RETRIEVAL

"Shit, why do _they_ have to be here?" "If _they_ hadn't screwed up in the first place, no one would have had to deal with this situation." "Guys, shut up, he might hear you." "What are the casualties?" "Twelve dead, forty-three wounded." "Including _their_ casualties?" There was dark laughter. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Make that _twenty-two_ dead, forty-three wounded."

Sergeant Michael Âmul, son of the renowned David Âmul, ignored the whispers as he always did. Because of the fact that the Black Guard only had operational authority in situations involving the royal family, they weren't seen much. As a result, the regular Durvagorian Army resented them. They felt as though the Black Guard was spoiled and not as good as the regulars, even though the Black Guard only accepted the very best of any military force. Unfortunately, this did not make them immune from failure.

Michael stopped just in front of the large group of Durvagorian regulars, gripping the stock of his M14 tightly, glad that his Kevlar balaclava hid his annoyance from view. The weight of his k-pot rested reassuringly atop his head. "What we have here is a hostage situation," he shouted, voice booming across the ruined square of Osgiliath that their base camp had been set up in. Not more than two hundred yards away the third eldest daughter of Aragorn was being held against her will by an armed force.

Cothiel had been taken some two days prior. The Third Black Guard Operational Squad had been in charge of watching over her. It was without exaggeration that the resulting battle to deny her capture cost the enemy more than two hundred of their men. Unfortunately all ten men and women of the Third perished. Most of them were friends of Michael's.

Regardless, he wasn't interested in revenge. He was a trained soldier, as were all members of the Durvagorian Army. The troops of the Third knew the risks of being Black Guards. They knew that they could very well die in service. Michael knew it as well, and could cope with the loss of his friends. He would mourn them, in his own time and fashion. He had a job to do first.

A Durvagorian Captain came up and extended his hand. Michael grasped it firmly and shook it with one quick jerk. They didn't have to like each other, just put up with each other for what would hopefully be a short while. "Captain Dushak, commanding officer of the Second Durvagorian Battalion."

"Sergeant Âmul, leader of the Ninth Black Guard Operational Squad." The handshake ended. "Now that the pleasantries have been concluded, what's the sit-rep?"

"Sergeant," the Captain ground out. "Don't exceed your authority limit. I outrank you."

Michael smirked. "Not any more. Not only did King Elessar give me complete authority in this situation, Lord Donovan did too. You are to provide back-up after my unit goes in for infiltration and hopefully retrieval."

Dushak scoffed. "And what makes you think that you won't screw up like the Third did?"

Michael froze at that, his polarized goggles hiding the shock he felt…and the anger. "Screw up? What the fuck do you mean 'screw up'? Screw up is where you lose twelve men and have another forty-three wounded without killing at least twice that number in enemies, _Captain_! The Third killed twenty times their number and wounded enough of the rest of the enemy force that they had to hole up in Osgiliath! That's a fucking _victory_ compared to what you've done here!"

Michael had overstepped his bounds and he knew it. He cursed as the Captain blew his lid. "Sergeant Âmul!" the Durvagorian roared. "I demand to see your papers as well as the documents that give you authority here!"

"What the _fuck_, sir! Cothiel's time is running out, and yet you still find the time to be a jackass!" He pulled open one of his pockets jerkily. "That's a member of the royal family out there! Yet you can't get past the petty prejudices between our branches!" He pulled out the sheaf of parchment and shoved it into the Captain's hands. "There, you prick." Without waiting another moment, Michael pushed past the officer. He really did need to get to the princess before something happened to the Lady.

Once the Captain grabbed his shoulder, Michael snapped. "Wait a minute, I have to get these checked ou-" but before the Captain could finish what he was saying, Michael grabbed the Captain's hand in a bone-crushing grip and flipped him over his shoulder. The Captain hit the ground with a very loud grunt, and Michael had his hands cuffed behind him in seconds.

"Sir, I regret to inform you that you are under arrest under the charge of hindering an operative under direct order of the High King Elessar. You will be provided with a military aid who will act as your lawyer during your court martial. Failure to comply will result in your expulsion of the Durvagorian Military and will possibly result in your termination!" Michael looked up at the Captain's bodyguard. "You are placed with the authority to watch over this prisoner. If he escapes or is aided in any way that can result in his escape, you will be arrested on the charge of assisting a royal prisoner. If you are found guilty, you will be summarily shot. Do you understand and comply with these orders?"

The soldiers looked at each other warily before they turned back towards Michael. He waited for their answer with baited breath. After all, if they refused, he couldn't do anything about it. He was probably in deep enough shit as it was. One did not usually arrest a high-ranking officer on a whim. At least he could count on Donovan for help. But now he had to deal with the situation at hand.

Dushak had a reputation of being a hard-ass, and supposedly his troops resented him. If they resented him to the point where they would help Michael, then he was clear. If they didn't, well then he had a problem. "Sergeant Âmul, we regret to inform you that we will not happily follow these orders," one of the soldiers, a corporal, said. "However, it is our duty to comply with the direct order of King Elessar. We will watch over the prisoner. Don't lose too many while rescuing the princess. Too many have died already."

Michael smirked, though they couldn't see it. He stood tall, and saluted. The troops saluted back. Without another word being said, Michael continued onward. It was time to rescue the princess…

TO BE CONCLUDED


	6. Operation Retrieval, Part Two

**AN: To any readers actually bothering with this fic, I apologize for this update's lateness. As a method of apologizing, I made it twice as long as most of the other chapters in this story. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. Anyways, please read, enjoy, and REVIEW!**

OPERATION: RETRIEVAL PT. 2

Corporal Mary Sriz; Sniper:

If you had to ask her for an opinion, she would say that now was her favorite hour of the night. It made killing people that much easier, since this was the time that the human body was the most tired, the most worn from the day's exertions. Unless, of course, one was trained exclusively at this time of night. Which was precisely why it was Michael Âmul's unit that was ordered to retrieve her highness. He was one of the units that were supposed to guard the royal family during the night shift, the 'graveyard' hours.

But we get ahead of ourselves. The lady being spoken about was named Mary Sriz, daughter of the renowned Megan Dhurum and George Sriz. She was, of course, named after Mary, the sergeant in charge of the M2HBs above Minas Tirith's main gate. Mary was fully aware of the gruesome fate her namesake suffered and did not plan on also sharing that fate.

This was why she had followed her mother's footsteps and became a sniper. Which was why she was in the middle of Osgiliath at 03:12 in the morning. She shifted slightly upon the mat she lay upon, and her breath misted slightly in front of her. Damn if it wasn't cold for October!

She peered through her scope at the enemy encampment which lay three hundred yards away from her own position. Despite the fact that even a trained eye would have trouble seeing in this misty gloom, her scope had no problem 'seeing' through the darkness. Not only did it show infra-red sources, but it also enhanced preexisting light three hundred times. She could see just fine, and with her rifle having a flash suppressor, not even her firing would give her position away.

She trained the cross-hairs of her scope upon one of the men patrolling the perimeter of their hastily made camp. She didn't flinch as a new wave of artillery whistled overhead and crashed far beyond the farthest reaches of the enemy position. After all, they wanted to keep the princess in one place, not have her being dragged all across Arda.

"Ghost one, this is ghost ten. I'm in position and am ready to fire," she said softly and clearly into her radio.

There was a pause. Finally Michael answered. "Ghost-ten, thank you for waiting. And I know you're in position. You only told me five minutes ago. Operation will commence at oh-three-fifteen hours, roger?"

Mary looked at her watch. 03:14:37. "Yeah, I read you." She tucked herself more firmly against her rifle, and switched the safety off with a barely discernable 'click'. Her rifle, the M21, was a twenty shot sniper rifle, semi-automatic. It was basically an accurized M14 like those that the rest of her squad members carried. She began to breathe deeply, blocking out the sounds of the artillery crashing in the distance. _Four, three,_ she let out half a breath, freezing, _two, one._ She caressed her rifle's trigger, and with a loud crack that was masked by the artillery, the weapon fired.

It was without interest or shame that Mary watched the man die. It was almost like clock-work for her. She centered the sights, she pulled the trigger, and her target died. How was it that Lord Donovan referred to it as…professional detachment? She mentally shrugged as she engaged the next target, high in a bell-tower…

Corporal Richard Galin; Machine gunner:

He ran hard and fast, flitting through the ruins of Osgiliath like a soundless shadow, invisible to all…not! Actually, he knew for a fact that he was the loudest member of his squad. No surprise, really. He was officially the tallest, at six-five. He was also the heaviest, at the weight of two hundred fifty pounds. And all of it was muscle. So he happily thundered through some of the most depressing terrain he had ever seen. Then again, this _was_ the place that suffered a week long artillery barrage during the last Great War.

Once he started hearing voices he slowed down considerably, and began to slowly pick his way across the gravel strewn ground. Hmm, what language was that…Harad? He shrugged, the weight of his combat pack reassuring against his back. An extra barrel was in the pack in case the one that was a part of his M240 7.62mm GPMG overheated. Accompanying the extra barrel was five ammunition boxes, each filled to the brim with one hundred rounds of ammo. He had a full belly, was well rested, and had six hundred rounds of ammo to play with as well as over one hundred enemies to kill. It was going to be a fun night.

He finally reached the outer perimeter of the enemy camp, leaping as lightly as he could over a man with a rather large hole in his head. _Thanks, Mary. Good work like always_. He paused behind a pillar and looked carefully around the bottom of it. Scanning the large camp, he looked for Cothiel. After all, he was going to be her guardian angel tonight. Albeit, an angel of death, but still a guardian. Spotting the princess in the middle of the camp, he growled in frustration as he began to back off. He would probably have to use his smoke grenades, and he hated to use something in which so much could go wrong.

"Ghost-ten, I am beginning insertion. Do you have visual on Cothiel?" he asked in a muted voice.

"Roger. Popping smoke?"

"Yeah. I'll need sniper overwatch. Ghost-one, is everyone else in place?"

There was a short pause, probably as Michael gathered his bearings and checked the rest of the squad. "Roger. Pop the smoke whenever you want to. Just make it quick, alright?"

"Sir, yessir, sergeant sir!" Richard grinned. There was a reason why he was called 'Joker' in jest. He removed the four smoke grenades attached to his LBE and carefully laid them on the ground. He took a deep breath, and picked up the first grenade. He pulled the pin and lobbed the smoke canister as far from himself as he could. The other three followed rapidly, and smoke grenades from the rest of his squad flew into the enemy camp.

Richard jumped up and pulled back the charging handle of his M240 twice as he began to run forward towards the princess. Shouts of surprise rose from his enemies, and the sudden sound of Mary's rifle punctuated the night's cacophony with harsh barks. His infrared/light enhancement goggles showed the movement made by the enemies even through the thick and obnoxious smoke.

Shouting from his left caught his attention and he turned and unleashed a brutal burst into the chest of the soldier attacking him. He _had_ to keep moving. Another enemy fell to a burst that nearly tore him in half from the waist up. Still sprinting, Richard finally reached Cothiel, who was surrounded by the bodies of the soldiers immediately surrounding her, undoubtedly Mary's work.

"Good evening, ma'am!" he shouted as he fired indiscriminately into a crowd of enemy soldiers evidently amassing to take the princess. "I'm your designated knight in shining armor tonight. Corporal Galin reporting for duty, and I'm going to be damn sure to get you out of this alive!" A wave charged him and it was not just his continuous firing that cut them down. So the rest of the squad was entering the fray. Good. "I'd very much appreciate it if you lay down on the ground and not move until this is over…"

Sergeant Michael Âmul, Squad leader:

Rifle fire, screams, exploding artillery in the distance…this was what the infantry man lived for, there was no doubt about it. Plus the fact that he and his unit was effectively outnumbered fifteen-to-one and they were _still _kicking ass and takings names with extreme prejudice was a bonus. It made your blood sing!

Lobbing an M67 grenade at a small group of enemies he turned towards the next group and began firing short bursts with his M14. The enemy couldn't see and probably couldn't breathe very well, they had no idea what just hit them, their leaders were the first targets, and Michael and his men controlled range. If the smoke wasn't there it might be a different story. But it was hanging thick and heavy in the air and the enemy just had their entire world go SNAFU in a very short amount of time.

A man screaming caught his attention, and Michael turned towards the man charging him calmly. At least until he pulled his M14's trigger and a 'click' answered him. Cursing, he drew his Colt .45 automatic pistol and brought it up. Unfortunately a bit late in the game. The man swung just as Michael fired, and both bullet and blade struck flesh at the same moment. Michael yelped as the blade tore into his arm. The enemy soldier, on the other had, made nary a sound as the pistol round punched through his head. He just dropped.

Michael swore brutally as his blood spurted into the air. Stupid sword just _had_ to cut through a major blood vessel. "Medic!" he shouted as he pressed down firmly on the wound, trying to at least slow the bleeding. He knew for a fact that blood rushing from a wound like it was a faucet was never a good thing. "Goddamsonuvabitchinhell!" he growled as the pain hit him like a hammer.

Gunfire crackled and snapped around him, and the screams of his enemies permeated the air thickly. Noticing someone approaching him, he turned quickly, preparing to fight. However, he recognized his medic, Private Kristen Gazog. "About damn time, soldier," he growled, half jokingly and half seriously. "I coulda bled to death!"

Even though he couldn't see her face, he knew she was smiling. "Aww, from this lil' ol' scratch? Naw, Sarge, ya'll will be alright!" She pulled out a large bandage from her aid kit, and stood right next to his arm. "Alright, you'll need to move your hand. I should get you patched up in a jiffy."

Michael winced as he peeled his blood saturated hand away from the wound, and yelped in surprise as a jet of blood sprayed from the deepest section of his wound. He barely managed to keep his calm.

"Damn, Sarge. That is a fine nasty cut you got yerself," Kristen said as she deftly applied pressure on the wound. Wrapping the bandage around his wound, she tied it, slightly more tightly then he would've liked, but this was a combat zone. Better to err on the side of caution than not tie it tight enough. "Can ye move yer hand?" she asked hurriedly even as she packed up her gear.

Michael flexed the hand in question, and even though it hurt he could go on. "Keep moving!" he shouted as he stood up and continued onward to Richard's position. The man was happily laying down suppressive fire towards the areas where the enemy was still banded together. "Richard!" he shouted, smacking the larger man on the shoulder. "I got this AO! Go help Kristen help enemy survivors, we need intel on enemy ops."

Richard nodded, and was up. "Rodger-dodger!" With those words, he was up and running towards the figure that was obviously their medic. Who else would be kneeling over a still alive body?

Hearing sobbing below him, Michael looked down, and noted the fair features of the princess. "Don't worry, milady. We'll protect you, even with our lives."

"That's…" the princess gasped, her soft and melodious voice stirring something decidedly male inside of Michael. He ignored it. "…that's what Alice said before they tore her limb from limb!" she sobbed harshly. "I don't want anyone to die on my account, I'm no one special, my blood is what makes me desirable to the enemy!"

Michael winced, and laid a gentle hand on the princess's shoulder. "Cothiel. From what I've heard of you, I would have gone on this mission no matter your status. You alone are worth rescuing."

Hearing those words, Cothiel looked up at him with shocked and luminous eyes, tear tracks running down her elfin face. "You…really would?"

He was about to respond, but heard someone shouting in Harad: "_Kill the damned girl! Don't let them have her back!_"

His rifle was immediately up, and with practiced ease he took down the men charging him, one shot to a man. He did not, however, expect the Orcish style of grenade to land five feet away from him. _Wherethefuckdidtheygetthat?_ No time to think, only time to act. He jumped upon Cothiel, heart rending at her shocked shout of pain as near two hundred pounds of Durvagorian, armor, and equipment landed roughly on her.

_**Kra-BOOOOOM!**_ He shouted in agony as steel and stone fragments dug into his unprotected arms and legs, and dimly heard Cothiel scream as shrapnel dug into the parts of her body that his didn't cover. Something was ringing, and he slowly came to realize that he was drooling blood onto the ground next to Cothiel's face. He slowly forced himself to get off of her form as dust, smoke, and raining shrapnel swirled harmlessly around their position.

Still that blasted ringing, and he was dimly aware of the fact that everything had a dreamlike quality, that it felt like he was floating. He made himself focus, and took the crying Cothiel's pulse. _Wait…if she was sobbing, that meant she was alive…not okay, but alive._ He forced himself to look over the Gondorian princess, checking her for life threatening wounds. Besides a particularly nasty looking piece of shrapnel sticking out of her leg, she seemed okay. Little cuts and bruises were scattered over her body, but she would live.

His squad was around him, telling him the area was secure, though it sounded like they were speaking through a mile of water. He keyed the talk switch on his radio. "Base, this is Sergeant Âmul." Even he sounded like he was talking through water… "The subject is secure, I repeat…the subject is…" Trailing off, Michael was only aware of the sense of falling before he was enveloped be welcoming darkness…


	7. Assassin

**AN- Alright, here's the next chapter. Wrote this one more on a whim, and though it's not likely to draw in any reviews, I had fun writing it. If any of you have any questions or requests for this story, please ask and I'll answer as best I can. I'm sure this will throw some of you for a loop, and I can tell you that it's a bit different from past chapters. Enjoy, and please review!**

ASSASSIN

She was grinning ferally, ignoring the dribble of blood running down the corner of her mouth. There were shouts all around her, but she was totally focused on the person in front of her. Her hands lightly grasped her katana's hilt, and she chuckled hollowly. "I've been waiting for a challenge, and it looks like you're lucky enough to provide."

The man before her was clothed in dark clothes, a cowl drawn over his face and a cloth wrapped around his face hid his features from view. It was obvious what he was...what he was here for. The Black Guard was dealing with his compatriots all around them, but her instinct told her he was the leader of the attack. His only response to her words was to lower his stance slightly and twirl his two swords so that they resembled glittering arcs.

"Okay. I'm guessing you decided to attack now because the Black Guard has one squad dead and another recuperating. You thought they were weakened now. You idiot." She smirked coldly. "Now I have to make you pay for kicking me in the face." Jumping forward, she brought her sword down in a quick slash, and her opponent easily blocked the blow before parrying her sword. Before she could react, he spun and landed a solid kick to her side before spinning away. Cursing, she leaped after him, and the next few moments were a blur of blades and limbs. When they finally broke apart, she was bleeding from a slice along her arm and his leg steadily leaked blood from a blow she had managed to land. "You're gooood," she hissed, her fangs expanding.

Her opponent's eyes widened slightly, and she jumped forward, putting all of her strength into the next swing. Evidently her opponent saw the difference in the strike, for instead of trying to block, he jumped back, and her katana crashed into the courtyard floor with a crash, the flagstones cracking underneath her sword's edge. Before focusing on her opponent again, Elana looked to the edge of the courtyard and spotted her father watching the fight, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. Judging by his relaxed stance, he wasn't worried about the outcome of her battle. Snapping around to look at her opponent again, she saw a blade sweeping towards her head. Hissing slightly in annoyance for her lack of concentration, she whipped her hand up and caught the blade between two fingers, relying on her vampiric strength to overcome her opponent. To her surprise, he was stronger than he looked, and the blade came a lot closer to cutting her flesh than she was comfortable with.

Snarling, she threw the blade away from her and ducked his other sword before sweeping in with her own. Again her life was composed only of blow and parry, sword and fist, blood and sweat. Somewhere in the middle of it, she realized that the courtyard had grown silent, that the Black Guard had managed to gain control again, that the King and Queen were safe. And still the fight dragged on. Her opponent truly was fabulous at swordplay, and she marveled at his endurance. She wouldn't grow tired for a long while yet, even though they had already been fighting for a good ten minutes at full strength. A normal man would have been unable to keep up the speed that they had been fighting at.

Jumping back to a good standing distance, she sheathed her katana and held it by her side, crouching in the battojutsu stance. Again he twirled his swords with flashes of steel before assuming a stance of his own. Falling back into her senses, Elana concentrated on his heart beat, which was elevated but not as much as it should have been...who was this man? Suddenly his heart leaped and she charged just as he did. Wind roaring in her ears, she grinned ferally as he drew closer. She could probably disarm him if she was careful, and then she could hand him over to be interrogated.

Just as they reached striking distance and she began her 'soryusen' two arrows hissed out of the darkness and sank into his back, puncturing his kidneys. With a muffled cry, he stumbled forward, his arms thrown back, and her sword tore through his chest, slashing open his lungs and cutting his heart in two. Already committed to the attack, Elana could only watch in muted rage as her steel sheath slammed into the already dead man's arm, shattering the humerus.

The body hit the floor, and slid to a halt, leaving a smear of blood on the stones. Flicking her sword with a well practiced move, Elana only snarled as the blood flew off the blade and splattered along the wall. Focusing on the arrows, her eyes widened when she saw the fletching, fletching she had seen only once before. Oh, but she remembered who carried the green feathered arrows. Her eyes snapping to the crowd of Black Guard and nobles who had gathered, her eyes met his, and she could see the shock in the blue orbs at the anger she was showing.

"Legolas Thranduillion, I should have known!" she hissed angrily as she plucked the two arrows from the corpse. "What were you thinking?!"

His answer was hot and quick in the coming. "I was helping a lady in what appeared to be a duel to the death!"

Her mouth dropped open in awe of his stupidity. "To the _death_?" she asked. "If I was trying to _kill_ him, the fight would have lasted mere moments...I am almost my father's equal in swordsmanship. I was trying to _capture_ him so we could find out who his master was!" When the prince's face went to shock and then to understanding, she growled, her fist subconsciously clenching and cracking the shafts of the arrows she held. "Idiot males, they never understand! They see a woman fighting and they only want to play hero!" Tossing the ruined arrows away from her, she turned and walked towards her cloak, which she had dropped at the beginning of the fight. Picking it up and slinging it over her shoulders, she headed once more for the shadows, for she was feeling the hated sun's rays on her skin. She was able to ignore it in the excitement of the fight, but now the crawling feeling she got whenever the sun touched her skin was back with a vengeance. Shuddering, she jerked her head towards the body, and two of the Black Guard nodded before hurrying towards the ruined form. Shuddering again, she hurried towards her quarters, taking her leave, ever aware of the pair of eyes focused on her back.

~*~*~*~

Once she was out of sight, Legolas released the breath he hadn't known he was holding. He had feared the worst when he had first heard the warning bells, but he had been quick to grab his weapons and fight off the assassins. Then he turned, and his breath had frozen in his throat. Elanariel, the daughter of two of the Fellowship, spinning and weaving in a dance of death. He didn't know how many times he had tensed as one of the two swords of the attacker came within inches of striking her fair skin, but he was oddly excited to watch her flawless moves. Remembering her hair flaring as she spun, auburn highlights catching the sunlight, he smiled softly. A loud curse from a wounded Durvagorian roused him from his memories, and he started slightly.

As though released from a spell, he stepped forward, and approached the felled assassin. Turning the slain man over, he grimaced. "How can one so fair cause such a grievous wound?" he murmured to himself as he made note of cut bones and perforated organs.

"Just because one is beautiful doesn't mean that they aren't deadly," a gravelly voice said, and Legolas looked up, startled. Donovan looked down at him with emotionless golden eyes. "She's my daughter, Leggy, I'd suggest being careful."

Legolas smirked softly. "Is that a warning that you'll destroy me if I hurt her, or a warning that she will do the same if she thinks I am a threat?"

"Both." Thinking his half-vampire comrade might possibly be joking, Legolas looked up, ready to make a witty comment of his own. However, he saw only cold steel and danger in the golden eyes glaring down at him. Swallowing nervously, Legolas suddenly felt like he was an elfling again. Nodding slightly, he looked back down to the corpse, his cheeks coloring slightly. _How is this possible_, _I'm many years his elder_! Deciding to do something constructive, he peeled away the mask of the dead assassin. The moment he did, he jerked back his hand as though burned. An elf male looked up, eyes blank in death. "What the-?!" Donovan snarled.

Legolas looked at the dead elf with shock. "Why would an elf wish to assault Aragorn?"

Donovan looked away from the elf. "Might not have been Aragorn he was after."

Legolas looked up to the half-vampire, suspicion coloring his eyes. "You don't think..."

"Elenloth is pregnant," Donovan growled softly. "Some elves might not want the 'vampire scum' to breed any further."

Legolas stood and walked a few paces away. He knew of some factions of the elves that viewed Donovan as an abomination, but he didn't think that they would go so far as kinslaying...he clenched his fist in anger. "Sweet Valar preserve us..."


	8. Surprise Visit

**AN: And here's the next chapter up, mainly for you, Iloveorlando. I suppose I could turn this collection of drabbles into a more concrete story with a more focused storyline, though I can't promise anything in terms of updating, especially with my freshman year of college quickly approaching. Anyway, this returns to Michael and Cothiel, so hopefully you'll enjoy it. Please read, enjoy, and review!**

SURPRISE VISIT

The wind blew steadily against his face, and he groaned as he shifted on his crutches. A dozen wounds all over his body stung, and he tried to concentrate instead on the gentle scent of spring on the breeze, but the pain was making it difficult. Not to mention the fact that he was wounded to the point where he was out of commission…until he completely recovered, he wouldn't be able to serve in the Durvagorian Army, much less the Black Guard. It was easy enough to say that it was all part of his duty to take wounds for the royal family, but he felt like he could have done better.

At least his squad had escaped the battle with little more than bumps and scrapes. He was the only one to receive truly serious wounds. Mary, Kristen, Richard, and the others would be teaching the newest class of Black Guard while he recuperated, so they would be kept busy. He, however, had little to do but try and keep patient as his body slowly healed. He was glad that his mission had been completely successful. Last he knew, Cothiel was in the royal section of the healing houses, getting the best care possible. It was unfortunate that she would have a scar on her leg from the shrapnel, but it was a small price to pay, considering what her captors COULD have done to her. However, he knew that she was probably suffering nightmares. He knew that he had after his first few battles. Nothing was the same after you inhaled the sickeningly sweet stench of another's lifeblood and watched the spark of life dim away. It was worse if you were the one who did the killing.

Sighing, he turned away from the panoramic view the window offered him, and looked over his quarters. Military gear and paraphernalia were strewn all over the place, and he shook his head. When he was in training, he had to keep his personal area spotless, but without the frightening presence of an instructor present, he found that he lacked the motivation to pick up after himself every day. Of course, his rooms never got messy, but they were never quite neat either. Running a hand through his high-and-tight haircut, he blew out an explosive breath. Well, he _could_ clean…it's not like he had anything better to do. Hobbling over to his unmade bed, he was just painfully lowering himself to the surface when there was an unexpected pounding on the door.

Blinking in surprise, he stared at the sturdy portal for a moment, thinking he had heard the noise. It was midday…all of his squad would be training students now, and his father and mother would be in the middle of the lunch rush. There was no one who would want to see him. Again the knocking sounded, and he thumped his way over to his dresser, where his .45 caliber pistol lay, already loaded and on safe. Tucking the weapon into the back of his pants, he moved as quickly as he could over to the door. Balancing on his two crutches, he took a steadying breath as one hand went to the door handle and the other went to the grip of his black pistol. He paused, waiting for the next tattoo to pound against the door. He did not have to wait long.

As his visitor's fist began pounding against the door, he jerked it open, and a soldier in black clothes and gear nearly stumbled in the door. He stared at the man, wondering at his presence. "Jack?" he drawled, relaxing his guard slightly. "What are you doing?"

The Black Guard sergeant straightened up. "Michael," he greeted. "I was ordered to escort you to Princess Cothiel so that she could thank you in person for your service, as well as to see how you are doing."

Michael raised a brow in surprise before laughing lightly. "Ordered, huh? Who issued the order?"

"Princess Cothiel."

He sobered immediately. "I hardly feel like I'm ready to meet the princess," he dryly stated, gesturing to his unshaven face and his rumpled sleeping clothes.

Finally the other man smiled. "Yeah, you look like shit, man. Almost as bad as the first time you stole the wine from dad and got hammered. Anyway, you can change and shave, but don't take too long."

Glad that his friend from childhood had finally stopped being so formal, he jerked his head back, inviting the other Black Guard soldier into his humble abode. "Shouldn't take me more than fifteen," he said as he hobbled over to his washroom. "How has life in the Black Guard been serving you?" he called into the main room as he lathered up a horse-hair brush. "Last I knew you were being considered for a Corporal's position," he said as he began brushing the lather onto his face.

"Got that position, and have been holding it steady for more'n a year now. I'm surprised you don't come calling more often."

Michael stropped his razor as he looked himself critically in the mirror. A flying piece of shrapnel had ripped open his flesh from temple to eyebrow, and the wound was stitched up, and an aged yellow bruise darkened his cheekbone, and he needed a haircut. Not exactly the best he'd ever looked. "Yeah, well, you know how the job can be," he said absently as he began to carefully drag the sharp blade against his stubble encrusted cheek. "The graveyard shift especially sucks, and then you have all the extra training and meetings and what-have-you to attend, and you end up with barely enough time to get a decent day's sleep."

"Yeah, I hear ya. Only, my shift is a day one, and I'm not on any squad, I'm more support for if we get attacked, like we did the other day." The man's voice shifted as he moved around the room, and it was easy to hear him checking out the different memorabilia that Michael had displayed.

Michael paused his shaving. "Attack? I heard something about that…I was still unconscious when it happened. What's the sit-rep on that?" he asked as he began to shave again, the blade moving slowly in his thoughtfulness.

"Well, I got three kills, all worthless street scum who decided it was a good idea to attack the citadel." He scoffed derisively. "Dumbasses. Maybe the most interesting thing about the attack was led by an elf."

Michael frowned even as he perused his shaving job. "An _elf_?!"

"Yeah. Lord Donovan thinks that he and his wife were the targets, not any of the royals."

"Huh…" Wiping off any remaining soap with a rag, he moved out of the room and towards his closet. "Think the dress uniform is appropriate?"

Jack flipped a hand in the air with a nonchalant shrug. "Go right on ahead. I don't care."

He threw the rag at his friends face. "Yeah, right, ya fucktard," he grinned as he pulled open the closet door. Time to look presentable for the princess.

~*~*~*~

Cothiel straightened her dress again, her hands fluttering over nonexistent wrinkles. Her handmaiden sighed, but she ignored the young girl. She needed to be composed for this meeting, she needed to be professional. _Professional_…_what does it mean to be professional_?_ Does it mean possessing the sheer will to sacrifice your very existence for someone you know little about_? She winced as the memory of that terrible explosion tore through her mind, the memory of the unbearable weight slamming into her body as the sergeant unhesitatingly threw himself on top of her to protect her from the threat. She didn't think she could do the same…she just didn't possess the courage.

Her thoughts went to the sergeant himself. There had been something about the man that had drawn her to him, though she had never seen his face even after they returned to the city. His voice was also not all that spectacular, as it was deep and a little rough but not enough to be remarkable. Was it his skills? She shuddered as she remembered how he smoothly and swiftly killed man after man…in her defense. "Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast," she whispered lightly, quoting her late primary protector. She bowed her head as a wave of sadness crashed over her. Alice had been more than a guard, she had been a friend. Cothiel swallowed thickly as she remembered the way Alice had screamed in pain and anger as the evil men had torn her to shreds. Fighting the urge to be sick, she groaned and pressed her hand against her forehead, wishing she could take away those memories.

Before her thoughts could continue to spiral ever downward, the door to the courtyard opened, and one of the Black Guard stepped in. "Announcing Sergeant Michael Âmul, leader of the Ninth Durvagorian Elite Guard Operational Squad," he boomed out in a thundering voice, and Cothiel stood, hands fluttering over her dress once again as she tried to swallow past a suddenly bone dry mouth. Why was she so nervous?

There was an odd thumping noise, and finally the sergeant came around the corner…supported by crutches. She winced as she saw how stiffly he was moving. It had been a week since her rescue, she didn't think he'd still be in a great deal of pain…then her eyes flicked to his face, and her breath froze in her throat. Sharp brown eyes scanned the courtyard, and she realized he was looking for threats. For a moment she was insulted, wondering if he thought she would invite him into danger, but then she remembered his profession. He was just doing his job by looking for danger, and probably didn't even know he was doing it.

His eyes settled on her, and she blushed slightly as she took in his features. High and prominent cheekbones, a strong jaw line and a slightly crooked nose, no doubt from it being broken during his career, and fair skin that was paler than she would have thought. He had broad shoulders and a deep chest, but not as barrel shaped as she would have expected…Durvagorians tended to be on the large side, but Michael didn't seem much taller than six foot even. He was also lean but exuded a sense of strength, power, and authority. Her eyes lifted, and met his intense gaze. She was captivated by the energy that seemed to spark behind his brown orbs but at the same time unsettled by how intent he was perusing her. Biting her lip, she glanced away. "Please," she whispered, "have a seat."

There was a click, and she looked up to see him unbuckling a saber from his side and leaning it against the small table she had been sitting at. She noticed he had a pistol strapped to his leg, and that it stayed there, untouched by the soldier before her. "No need to be so timid, my lady," he murmured as he moved around the table, his voice deeper than she remembered. "It doesn't suit you." He grasped the back of her seat, and motioned for her to sit with his free hand. Blushing harder at his proximity, she complied, and squeaked when he pushed her in with little sign of struggling. As he made his way to his own chair, she wondered just how strong he really was.

Hearing a soft groan from him as he sat down, she frowned in compassion. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, eyes fixed on the tabletop before her.

"Yes, my lady. I think I've suffered worse wounds in training," he answered briskly, and she wondered if he would always speak to her in such a manner. The thought saddened her more than she would like to admit. There was a light clatter as he set his crutches against the table, next to the sword. "You requested my presence?" he asked, getting to the matter of things.

She closed her eyes and sighed, wondering if calling for him had been a mistake. "Yes, I did. I wanted to thank you for your service by inviting you to a midday meal. It was the least I could do."

"Please, my lady. The service was nothing but an honor to do. I'm glad that I and not another was selected to rescue you."

Startled at his words, she looked up and into his face. "Why is that?"

He did not answer, but his eyes flicked from her to her handmaiden, and it only took a moment for her to understand. The conversation was being listened to. "The walk up to the Citadel was long, and I am thirsty, my lady," he said as he held her gaze.

Without breaking their contact, Cothiel turned towards the younger girl. "Riethel, could you go get a pitcher of water and some cups for Sergeant Âmul and me?"

Without a word, the girl stood and made her way towards a door in the back of the courtyard. Within moments the two were alone. Sighing slightly, Âmul visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping a little. "My lady, I am glad to have rescued you not only because my unit and I were the most qualified to do the job, but because I got the chance save you from a terrible fate. Not only that, but I was asked to meet you again under much better circumstances."

Her heart leaped in her chest, and she looked at him with wide eyes. "You…you enjoy my presence?"

His eyes were serious as he answered. "Why would I not, my lady?" At a loss for words, she could only continue staring at him as he went on. "You are kind hearted, and have a gentle spirit, one well suited towards soothing another's hurts. Your form is fair, but it is truly your personality that makes you worth protecting from all harm." He paused, and then looked away, shame coloring his face. "My lady."

Realizing she was blushing furiously, she gently cleared her throat. "Is that…is that how you truly feel about me?" she asked, barely daring to hope, but when he looked back at her with a slight glare affixed on his face, she recoiled slightly.

"Princess, this is a dangerous subject. I said too much as it is. I am merely a soldier in your father's army, not even minor nobility. I could be hanged for what was said here today." He muttered a strong curse under his breath, and leaned back in his chair. "I shouldn't have said what I did!" he growled softly, and she could only watch sadly as he looked more and more distressed. What he said was true, and she knew it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and his glare softened as he looked back at her.

"It's not your fault," he sighed as he removed his black beret and ran a hand through short hair. "Rather it's mine for even acknowledging those thoughts." Giving a humorless chuckle, he glanced at her. "You look like a goddess when you sleep, my lady…" Shocked at the words, she stared at him, torn between pleasure at the complement and horror at what the words meant. Seeing her reaction, he quickly waved his hands before himself. "My lady, you misunderstand. My squad is part of the night guard, and it is our duty to periodically check upon the royal family to make sure you are still safe and sound…nothing more than a quick glance in the dead of the night, I assure you."

Blushing at the thought of the handsome sergeant watching her sleeping, she barely managed to croak out: "Wh-when are your duty hours?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "From zero-one hundred hours to zero-two hundred hours, my lady. Right now, that slot is being filled by other squads until I heal enough for duty."

Nodding, she turned her head as the door Riethel had departed through opened, and a small throng of servants entered the courtyard, bearing food and other refreshments. Looking back to her guest, she frowned as she noticed that his eyes were guarded and his face masked into a look of neutrality. However, she felt a smile tug at her lips as the servants set the table before them. The panicked look that the sergeant gave the numerous pieces of silverware was amusing, to say the least. "Start from the outside, and work your way in," she laughed, and then blushed he shot her a grateful look. The rest of the meal passed in silence, both of them ever aware and ever cautious of the servants around them. After the meal was finished, Sergeant Âmul thanked Princess Cothiel for the meal, excused himself, and took his leave. They would see each other in passing again soon, but it would be a few months before they would have a chance to speak in private…but that is a story for another day…


	9. Honor and Glory

**AN: here's another chapter, Iloveorlando, and I hope you enjoy it. You get to see a lot of things in this one: Donovan's interest in politics, Michael's family life, Cothiel's relationship with her father, Aragorn's feeling of protection for his daughter...hopefully you enjoy it. Anyone else reading this, I ask that you please review!  
Read, enjoy, and review!**

HONOR AND GLORY

Or:

PARENTS CAN BE ANNOYING

Prince Donovan Cerridwen, Lord of the Durvagorian Army, listened as the men seated around the table went over dry subjects such as taxes throughout Gondor, how the crops were doing, where random skirmishes with orc raiders were taking place, things like that. He shifted slightly, but remained leaning against the same column he had leaned against during Gondor's darkest hour during the War of the Ring. Smiling softly at the memory, he relaxed more as he waited for the dry subjects to be over with. He would rather be with his wife in Ithilien, but he had been called to Minas Tirith because of the attack that had taken place a month and a half ago. Ambassadors had been sent to the elven leaders still remaining in Arda, and had returned yesterday. He sighed as he wondered how Elenloth was doing…he knew she was safe, as their home was practically located in the middle of the Durvagorian Army HQ and the soldiers were on alert, but he knew that she worried about him. His hand went to his chest, running over where his scar from the Witchking was. He would give anything to not be in pain, even for one day, but he knew that the sharp ache would be present with him until the day he died.

"-and there is the matter of the Elite Guard soldier, Sergeant Michael Âmul," Aragorn said from the head of the table. Donovan perked up at the mention of Michael, for he had been the one to put him in his current position, despite his young age. His father had been an exceptional soldier, and it looked like his son was following suit. "I'd like to have him rewarded, but your reports on him state that he does not desire to be promoted, Donovan."

He nodded. "That's correct. He works best with the squad he's with, and I wouldn't be surprised if he stays a sergeant for a long time. He's happy there, Aragorn."

Aragorn frowned thoughtfully as he steepled his fingers. "What would you suggest?"

Donovan rocked on his feet, lips pursed with thought. Reaching a decision, he looked up. "Make him a knight. I can support that by giving him some medals." When the other nobles in the court started protesting, he held up a hand, and they quieted down almost immediately. He glanced around the faces, noting the ones that didn't look angry…Boromir and Faramir, Halbarad Dúnadan, Prince Imrahil…all those who fought with him during the War of the Ring. All of the politicians who had not gone to war were the ones who had protested. "Does not saving the life of a daughter of King Elessar count as an act of nobility?" he asked quietly, but projecting his voice so that all heard him. "He protected her body with his, not caring if he would live or die. I'd say that that is the actions of a knight, and I think he should thusly be rewarded."

Aragorn nodded. "It shall be done, then. Make note of it. Now, what news do we have from our elven cousins?" he asked, looking towards his diplomats and their elven counterparts.

The elf from Lothlorien spoke first. "My lord, I have news from my Lady Galadriel that she is shocked at this blatant display of animosity from one of the firstborn, and that she wants it to be known that she supports Prince Donovan Cerridwen just as much now as she did from the moment of their first meeting. She pledges our support in trying to find out who is behind this atrocity so that the strain put between the two races can be resolved." Donovan smirked at the words. Diplomats. Wordy bunch, every single one of them. He wasn't worried about the assassin coming from Lothlorien, not even from the beginning. Lady Galadriel wouldn't have stood for it.

The Eryn Lasgalen elf stood next, a haughty expression on his face. "King Thranduil wants this to be known: he acknowledges Cerridwen as an ally of Eryn Lasgalen, and while he does not agree to his heritage, he does not find it a reason to slay someone," he sniffed disdainfully, and Donovan's eyes flicked to Legolas as the elf prince shifted uncomfortably. No doubt he wasn't entirely happy with the message his father had sent back. Donovan didn't care, but he didn't rule out Eryn Lasgalen as the source of the assassin. Certainly not an assassin being funded by Thranduil, but he didn't have complete control over all his elves. Some might have the authority and the initiative to send someone to try and remove the 'vampire scourge' from Middle Earth.

Finally the elf from Ithilien stood, and Donovan acknowledged her with a nod. That particular elven settlement was not far from his home, and he had even visited it several times, even if just to understand his wife's culture better. "My Lord Donovan, my Lord Elessar, you are both familiar with the elves of my home, and our leader frequently visits your fair city while he is not travelling with his companion, Gimli, son of Gloin. Indeed, you both acknowledge him as a friend, so you know that he would never in his lifetime dare order an attack to be brought upon either of you or your families. However…" she started, suddenly visibly uncomfortable, and she looked to Legolas, who gave a grave nod. "However, investigation has revealed that some elves openly detest anyone of vampire descent, but it is unknown if they would be willing to attack the citadel in such an obvious manner. Know that we are looking into the matter thoroughly." Bowing her head in shame, she whispered an apology before taking her seat. Donovan frowned, and looked to Legolas for confirmation, and he silently snarled as the elf prince gave another short nod.

"This is grave news indeed, but we mustn't let it control our lives," Aragorn said, but it was easy to see that he was deeply troubled by the news. Shaking his head, he looked over the counsel. "We have the anniversary of the Battle of Minas Tirith approaching, and we need to arrange for the memorial ceremony. Arthros, you volunteered to be in charge of the…"

Donovan ignored the rest of the meeting, his mind racing, analyzing the data he had learned. What did it mean to have a single elf try and assassinate him and his family, and then find out that the most likely source of the attack was the lands that were ruled by one of his few friends? It was troubling, to say the least…

~*~*~*~

Michael stared at the missive, shocked. Him? A _knight_?! His sister cackled delightfully. "Congratulations, sir knight!" she laughed, and he blushed furiously. Leave it to his oldest sister to make him feel like a little child again.

"Come on, sister, that isn't fair!" he protested, and looked to his parents for help. He should have known better than to go to them for quarter.

His mother was smiling as tears swam in her eyes. When he had first arrived for the visit to his parents' house, she had burst into tears at the sight of him still limping a little and his arm still bandaged from the arterial wound. While the sleeves of his dress uniform had hidden the wound from the princess, his sleeveless tunic that he wore for the visit did not offer the same protection. He was glad that he hadn't come earlier when he still had many bandages still healing. He was also glad that he would be healed by the end of the week. After nearly two months of healing, he was finally able to start exercising, and his squad had been reassembled and were scheduled to return to their duties before the end of a fortnight.

Now, however, he had decided to visit his family, and had been pleased to find Hanariel there. She was visiting from her home in Ithilien with her husband and children, though they had opted to explore the city until a later hour. At least…he had been pleased until the message came and gave him the news that was both good and bad at the same time.

"So," his father smiled. "You're noble now. Welcome to the club," he laughed, and Michael could only groan. His father was minor nobility because of his days as a Captain, even though he didn't exercise any of the authority behind his name. To tell the truth, Michael hadn't been all that interested in being considered gentry, which is why he was glad that his father's title wasn't hereditary. Now, though…

"Was my deed truly so spectacular that I be rewarded like this?" he asked quietly. He knew all of his siblings were good soldiers or workers of their trade, so why did he deserve this special honor? He had only done what duty had demanded of him. What of his squad? They had been there at the fight, but had they received a knighting? He doubted it.

Hanariel reached up and gave him a big hug. "Come on, little brother, be happy! Honestly, I'm surprised you weren't promoted to match this."

He snorted. "Thank Eru!" He would have happily turned down a promotion. He was comfortable at the rank of sergeant, and did not desire to have the responsibilities of a captain thrust upon his shoulders. He grasped the table, his muscles bunching under his strength.

"Oh, but I'm so proud of you, my little boy!" his mother crooned, and he blushed heavily, glad that Cothiel wasn't there at that moment. How embarrassing.

"Mom!" he whined. "I'm twenty-three, not a little boy anymore!"

She positively beamed at him, and he groaned as he buried his head in his hands. "You'll always be my baby boy, Michael."

"Ugh!" he groaned, thumping his head against the table repeatedly. "Just 'cause I'm your youngest child…" he complained. "Why, sweet Elbereth, do you torment me thus?"

His family laughed heartily, and his father clapped him on the back with a firm hand. "Don't worry son, it isn't as bad as you seem to fear. Really, the worst part is the knighting itself…"

Interest piqued, Michael raised an eyebrow. "Pray tell, why is that?" Members of the Black Guard were privy to all the different functions of the state, including knighting ceremonies and celebratory feasts, but he had always worked at night, when no such happenings were going on. Nor did he care enough to ask his brethren what went on during those gatherings.

"Well, there is the fasting…you can't eat for three days, and you can only wear clothes of white linen to show your purity." At that statement, Hanariel snorted, and Michael glared at her, his ears turning red, though if it was from anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess. Ignoring his step-daughter, David continued. "On the day of the ceremony itself, you will have to present the king with a speech, and then you will swear fealty to him and his family. Then the knighting itself will take place, and then there are usually games, parties, and a feast, all welcoming you to knighthood."

Feeling suspicious at the way his father had rushed over the actual knighting, he frowned at him. "What happens when King Elessar knights me?"

When David paused, Hana sighed explosively. "Oh, for Elbereth's sake!" she groaned as she stood up. Stomping over to the fireplace, she picked up a poker. When she turned towards him with her mouth set in a grim line, Michael swallowed heavily as a cold sweat broke out over his face.

"What are you planning to do with that?" he asked nervously as she lifted the iron rod threateningly. Suddenly realizing that he shouldn't just be sitting still, he jumped out of his seat and took off, his much shorter sister hot on his heels, cursing at him and ordering him to stay still. "Mom, help!" he shouted as he skid around the kitchen table.

"Hanariel Âmul," Adra scolded loudly, hands on her hips. "Is it really necessary to chase your little brother around the table?"

"Yes!" she hissed as she swung and missed.

"Fair enough."

Michael yelped as the poker barely managed to catch his backside. "You have _got_ to be kidding me! _MOM_!"

"Hold still, you big baby!"

"ENOUGH!" David roared, and Michael froze at the tone of his voice. Hana didn't and ran into him, bouncing off his sturdier form and landing on the floor with an indignant 'oof!'. "You children are acting like fools!" he growled as he snatched the poker from Hana's startled grasp. "Fer fuck's sake, boy, King Elessar is simply going to take his sword and bring it down once on each shoulder," he snarled as he demonstrated just that. "Only he will be doing it with a great deal more force. The point is for it to be the very last blows you will receive unanswered. Lord! Couldn't you have just _explained_ the process, Hana?"

"No," she grinned as she stood and dusted off her backside. "My way was a great deal more fun. I forgot just how fast Michael had gotten, though…" she frowned.

"Or maybe you're just getting slow, _old woman_!" Michael shot back, and had to run again, only this time cackling loudly as a thoroughly pissed Hanariel chased after him. He would have to begin fasting in a week, so why not have fun at the moment?

~*~*~*~

Cothiel wasn't paying much attention to her brother and father as she sat demurely on the bench on the royal gardens, working on her embroidery. She did not care much for the affairs of men except for those of the more intellectual nature, like the playing of chess or other such strategy games more normally reserved for men. As a result, she did not spend that much time listening in on her father's and brother's conversations, just as she doubted that Eldarion listened to his sisters' conversations with their mother. There was simply no need for it.

However…when her ears picked up the words 'knighting' and 'Durvagorian' she looked up, slightly startled. Noticing her attention, her father motioned to her. Setting aside her project, she hurried over to him, accepting his warm hug with a smile. "Yes, _ada_?" she asked, wondering why she was called over.

"I just wanted to bring to your attention that the young man who saved your life is going to be rewarded, as you had requested. Lord Donovan suggested that he be knighted, and I had no qualms as to agreeing with this particular method. As I understand it, he will also be given a medal, but I do believe that the knighting is the greater privilege. Do you agree?"

Wordlessly, she nodded, her thoughts racing. This would make Michael minor nobility…he would be able to show a romantic interest in her without fear of banishment. The only question was would her father allow them to be together? She was his second youngest daughter to date, and had two her elder. Politically speaking, it would be a good match, at least in her opinion. Rohan was already bound to Gondor through the union of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth and King Éomer, so there was no need for a princess to be sent to those lands. There was talk of one of her sisters heading far north, to Esgaroth, but as of yet that was mere rumor. The elves were leaving, and they mostly married amongst their own kind, her mother being the exception to that rule.

Truly, the only people that she and her sisters could marry for political reasons were the noblemen from Gondor itself, and that was more for formalities than for any alliances. Her father's rule was steadfast and fair. The Durvagorians, though, they were still loyal mostly to Lord Donovan rather than her father or Gondor. Maybe having one of their own married into the royal family would make them more loyal to the Royal Family. It was true a fair number of them had married Gondorian or Rohirric women, but none of them were of noble blood. She also knew that any Durvagorian Captain was considered Gondorian nobility, but she realized even from a young age that the no-nonsense Durvagorians cared little for such titles and the responsibilities that they carried. They would do whatever their first Lord commanded, even though the first Durvagorians were retired, save for the few who were in commanding positions.

"Daughter? You are thinking rather hard about something," her father said, and she detected a hint of amusement in his tone. "Would you care to share your thoughts, or are they secret for now?"

Grateful for the chance to not reveal what she was thinking, she smiled lovingly. "I would like to keep my thoughts my own, _ada_, but mayhap later I will reveal them to you, when the time is right." She did not think that he would appreciate the fact that she was already thinking of another man romantically, even if she was twenty winters old. She knew of other women four winters younger than her who were already mothers, but it seemed her father wanted his children to wait. It wasn't as if they didn't have a plethora of time…they had both Sindarin and Numenorian blood in their veins. Lost once more in her thoughts, she missed the knowing twinkle in her father's eyes. It seemed the King of Gondor was more knowledgeable of the workings of his daughter's heart than she thought…

~*~*~*~

Aragorn watched as the young man of Durvagorian and Gondorian descent approached, his pallor lighter than he expected. It was true that he worked the 'graveyard shift' as one of the Black Guard, but this went beyond that. As he rose from his throne, he looked at the man who saved his daughter with kindly eyes. He held out his hand for Arwen, and she took it graciously, rising out of her seat with elven grace.

As they stepped down from their dais, he quickly appraised the crowd. Not too many, mostly various members of the military, both Gondorian and Durvagorian. There was also his council, and Donovan with his family. Truthfully, he was surprised this many showed up. What more surprised him was the fact that Cothiel had opted to attend the ceremony. He knew that she wasn't one for this type of gathering, and her presence only served to help confirm his suspicions. Leaning over to Arwen, he began to whisper in Sindarin, knowing that his daughter did not fully grasp the language yet, and his words would be hard to hear over the murmur of the crowd from her seat at the Royal Dais. "_I think that this young lad has captured the heart of our daughter_."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "_Indeed_? _What do you think of him_?"

His lips pursed as they began to walk towards the kneeling Durvagorian. "_He is the son of David Âmul, who spent many years ensuring the safety of our family from all harm_. _He is also the one who threw himself into harm's way to protect Cothiel_. _He is, at the very least_,_ honorable and a good man_."

"_And his feelings towards our daughter_?"

"Just watch," he responded in Westron, and sure enough, it was easy to see that the young man's eyes frequently fell upon Cothiel, and that they softened considerably every time that they did. Coming within easy talking distance, the king spoke in an amiable tone. "Greetings, Sergeant Michael Âmul of Minas Tirith." At his words, the young sergeant's eyes focused on him, and he was almost shocked at how sharp the brown orbs were. It seemed as though they absorbed all that they saw, almost like a wolf or a falcon. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Momentarily at a loss for words, Aragorn could only meet Âmul's gaze. _Just who is this young man_? he found himself silently asking.

"Greetings, my liege lord," the soldier responded, bowing his head low. Raising his head, he began to speak loudly enough for the small crowd to hear his words. "I was called here today so that I would be rewarded for my rescue of the Princess Cothiel," at the mention of his daughter's name, Aragorn could barely perceive the warmth the words held, but it was there, nonetheless, "but I do not feel as though I deserve such a rich honor. I am Durvagorian, and a sergeant of the Elite Guard!" he said with a sudden fierce pride in his voice. "I am a warrior, and I was just doing my duty both to my Lord Donovan Cerridwen and to the royal family. I do not want this honor."

Aragorn would have been offended, but Donovan had talked to him beforehand, telling him that Âmul would most likely not be pleased by the honor he was being given, that it wasn't the Durvagorian way. Unfortunately, most of his council hadn't received the same words of wisdom, and a faint ripple of consternation rolled over the crowd. Before anyone could voice their thoughts on the soldier's impudence, Donovan spoke up. "It would surprise you, young Âmul, that I was the one who suggested that you be knighted. As a knight you will be able to serve your mother's people and your father's blood all the better."

Michael Âmul nodded, but Aragorn noticed that his gaze wasn't fixed upon his Lord, it was focused behind him and to his left. Turning around to peer at what had caught the man's attention, Aragorn wasn't surprised to spot his daughter blushing slightly. "Cothiel," he called out, and she jumped slightly before looking to him, her blush deepening. "As the one who Sergeant Âmul rescued, I think it is only fair that you share your thoughts in this matter."

You could almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, and silence reined in the citadel for nearly a full minute before she stood, a faint tremble the only thing betraying her nervousness. She walked down the steps slowly and with grace. Upon reaching Âmul's kneeling form, she reached behind her head and untied a bright blue ribbon that had been affixed around her intricate braids. "Sergeant Âmul, I would be honored if you would bear the burden of being my knight protector." At her words, shocked silence ruled for an eternity before fierce whispers broke out. Even Aragorn didn't know whether he wanted to cry or to laugh…or rage. "As long as my father agrees, of course," Cothiel added on as she turned to face him, eyes pleading.

For a moment, he was very close to denying her request. Even as he was opening his mouth to speak a solemn and tight-voiced 'nay' Arwen lay her hand on his shoulder, and he turned to her, surprised to see the laughter in her eyes. She nodded ever so slightly, and he fought the urge to sigh. "Very well, daughter, if Sergeant Âmul agrees, it shall be done," he almost groaned, wondering if the young man knew what he was getting himself into.

All eyes fixed upon the young man, and his eyes grew distant before he finally nodded. "My Liege," he said, bowing to him. "My Lord," he bowed to Donovan. "My Lady," he finished, bowing for his daughter. "It is my wish to let you know that I had only desired to avoid this reward because I felt unworthy of it. However, it will be my honor and glory to accept knighthood in your name, King Elessar."

Trying to smile but knowing it looked more like a grimace, Aragorn nodded. He nearly stomped down those last three steps, drawing Andúril from its sheath in one swift movement. Almost smiling at the slight flare of fear that could be seen in Âmul's eyes, he raised the ancient blade high above his head. "So I knight thee, Michael Âmul of Minas Tirith! You shall be known forthwith as Sir Michael Âmul Durvagor!" He brought the flat of the sword down on the young man's right shoulder with a bit more force than he would have normally used. He needed to see if his daughter's choice was a wise one. However, Âmul gave no reaction to the heavy blow other than clenching his teeth together and his nostrils flaring slightly. No noise escaped him, and he was not moved. Raising his sword again, Aragorn looked down upon the man dressed in white, wondering exactly how long he had before he would be calling him 'son'. "The Valar bless you on your exploits, Sir Michael Âmul Durvagor!" he shouted before repeating the same blow on his left shoulder. The new knight's muscles bunched and corded, but he still did not move nor make a sound. "Those are the last blows you will ever take unanswered, sir knight. Arise, and greet your new responsibilities." As he sheathed Andúril, Sir Michael stood, slightly shaky on his feet, and Aragorn saw that he had grown even paler. He needed refreshment. "Let the feast and games begin!"

Out of nowhere Adra Âmul appeared, crying happily as she nearly dragged her son towards the tables that had been nearly buried under food. The games that would commence after the feast were of the more rowdy kind, and the competitors preferred to have full stomachs before they boasted their skills on the field. A smaller table was produced and brought over to the thrones, and the Royal Family present made their way over to the banquet. As Cothiel passed by him, he gently lay a hand on her shoulder. "Daughter, we will have to talk about your decision. It is no small thing you asked of _your_ knight," he said, tone nearly accusing.

She had the good grace to look slightly sorry and embarrassed. She shrugged uncomfortably. "Something told me that it was the right thing to do, father. I can only hope that it wasn't a mistake."

"I hope so, too, loved one," he said as he looked over to the knight lightly roughhousing with his fellow soldiers, a tankard of ale in one hand and a turkey leg in the other. "I truly hope so…"


End file.
